Frozen
by Argella
Summary: They all proved their usefulness to Near. But now Near is L, and L works alone.


**_A/N: For Near's nineteenth birthday, August 24, 2010. Thank you to Meiyl for her many suggestions and to Monnie for looking this over._**

**Disclaimer: Death Note belongs to Tsugumi Ohba and Takeshi Obata.**

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**Frozen**

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Near has called a meeting, the last time they will all meet as the SPK before it is disbanded, and Stephen is standing warily between Anthony and Halle as they wait for their boss to speak. Near is curled up on the floor as usual, seemingly preoccupied with building a tower out of tarot cards. He meticulously places each new card on the growing tier—the fool, the devil, the hanged man, justice, judgment, death—while his three agents watch him uneasily.

He pauses, fingers hovering over the deck of cards. Unexpectedly, he turns his head and lifts his gaze, making brief eye contact with each of them. Stephen suppresses a nervous shiver.

Near's waxen complexion and snowy hair give him the appearance of what Stephen would have imagined a shinigami to look like, before he had ever seen one—pale as death, with empty eyes, a cool intelligence, and the air of something otherworldly. Near is cold and sharp as a finely honed blade. His calculating gray eyes are not deathlike, however; they are alive and all-observing, though there is no warmth in their depths.

He finally addresses them, in a soft, polite tone. "Agent Lidner. Commander Rester. Agent Gevanni. I would like to sincerely thank you for your efforts in this investigation. All three of you will be duly compensated for the work you have done." Stephen is inclined, for the first time, to doubt what Near has said. No amount of money could compensate for the toll that the Kira case has taken on all of them—though, of course, a hefty paycheck is all the recompense they can expect. "You are free to leave now. Any further inquiries should be directed to Watari." Near tugs his thin lips into an almost imperceptible smile. "Farewell... It has been an honor to work with all of you."

Halle, Anthony, and Stephen murmur their acknowledgement and stiffly salute their former boss, who has immediately gone back to constructing his card tower. They turn to leave, and a few seconds later, the elevator doors close on the view of the control room for the last time. Stephen can still see, in his mind's eye, the silent figure sitting on the floor, surrounded by stacks of cards and dimly flickering screens.

An honor... yes, they all proved their usefulness to Near. But now Near is L, and L works alone.

Near has informed them that the current director of Wammy's House is prepared to fulfill his duty as Watari, and Near will begin taking on new cases as L immediately, will begin to repair the damage done to his reputation over the past five years. Stephen doesn't know how such a weary old man as Roger Ruvie could act as Watari to Near's L. He can't imagine Ruvie living and working side-by-side with Near, conversing with him about his theories and helping him solve his cases. Stephen knows the more likely scenario: Near will live alone, holed up in a headquarters somewhere, with Ruvie communicating with him from a distance and sending various subordinates to attend to Near's personal needs. There is no doubt that Ruvie will make sure Near is provided for—after all, the man has a lot of experience managing that orphanage for genius children—but he doesn't seem like the sort of person cut out for detective work.

Ruvie did have a hand in raising Near, and is probably the closest person to a father Near will ever have, Stephen thinks. But Near doesn't need a father. He needs a resourceful, compliant, efficient guardian who will find new cases, make travel and communication arrangements, purchase necessary materials, and allow Near to function as L with no interference. Ruvie will likely be sufficiently competent at this role. Like the members of the SPK, Watari is merely Near's associate, his employee.

Near doesn't need a father, because he is an adult. A fragile, young, and strangely dependent adult, but an adult all the same. He wears his pajamas like a government agent would wear a suit; his slim, pale fingers reach for toys not in idle play, but in deep concentration. The vast expanses of his intellect and inductive abilities need tangible objects to latch and project onto—he is not at all like a little boy playing make-believe. At times he seems to be a mockery of a child.

(Anthony had stood in the line at the toy store for him, held his hand at the airport. Would Watari do that?)

The shreds of childishness that remain in Near are like frozen pieces of his psyche that never got a chance to thaw. He never learned how to go shopping, travel by himself, prepare a meal, or launder his clothes—other people have always taken care of such trivial matters for him. He also never learned to make a friend, have a casual conversation, or express his emotions; these are skills he should have picked up at the orphanage like all the other children, but somehow didn't. Perhaps he did not consider them to be important things to learn. How would Near even know what he was missing?

Near holds no one close to his heart. He wouldn't know how to accept affection or kindness even if anyone dared to offer it. If he has ever loved anyone, the feeling was probably long since buried and forgotten.

(_Dear Mello_, the back of the photo had said, but Near's frosted voice and the nonchalant arch of his eyebrow spoke different words, playing with Mello's emotions as though they were pawns in a game. _If you want to shoot me, go ahead_.)

Stephen tries not to resent Near for being uncaring, for being the way he is. It doesn't stop Near from being courteous, professional, or utterly brilliant—the only qualities that are really necessary for the job of being L. However, it's hard not to begrudge Near's tendency to manipulate people like toys. Stephen can't help feeling used—Near has demanded so much of him, of everyone. Near possesses the greatest analytical mind since the original L himself, but he cannot function as a person without others acting as his eyes and ears, his hands and feet. If Stephen did resent Near, would Near even understand what that meant?

At some point, each member of the SPK has acted as Near's bodyguard, caretaker, sounding board, errand runner, or spy. They've all risked their lives and their sanity to obey this boy's every order. And now that they've finally defeated Kira, Stephen doesn't know if it was all worth it—meddling in deadly supernatural matters, spending sleepless nights and vexing days tracking and watching and copying and photographing... knowing that if he made the slightest slip-up, they would all pay with their lives. If Stephen had failed, Kira's victory would have been absolute.

(They had stood stock-still in the warehouse, dripping with cold sweat, ignoring with all their might the hideous black apparition that loomed behind the murderer they had to defeat. Near had said, _You won't die_, and all they could do was believe in him.)

But Near pulled them through, didn't he? He pushed them hard because he knew they could handle the pressure—he trusted them. He staked his life on their abilities and their loyalty. Working for Near has been taxing, onerous, frustrating almost past tolerance... but Stephen sees that behind Near's indifference, insensitivity, and insufferableness, there seems to be a glimmer of respect for his colleagues. A hint of pride. Near does value them, though he will never see them as his equals.

Near will never have a true equal. He will forever be peerless, singular, above everyone else in the world. Completely alone.

Now that Stephen, Halle and Anthony have left him to return to the semblance of a normal, Kira-less life, Near will only have robots and puppets and figurines to talk to. When Near addresses the world as L, his identity will be shrouded in voice filters and the mask of his iconic gothic letter. No one will hear his soft, measured voice; nobody will see the thin, delicate frame hunched on the floor. No one will watch him curl his white hair around an elegant finger, or see his eyes light up in a satisfied smile when yet another puzzle has been solved.

He will never know the embrace of a parent, a lover, a friend. He will be alone, crouched among his inviolable towers and walls of glaring monitors, dispassionately solving puzzles for the rest of his life. He would claim that this is what he wants, that this is what he is meant to do.

Even if Stephen were to run back upstairs and burst into headquarters again to speak to Near, what could he say? Tell him that it's okay to have feelings? Beg him to be human? Near doesn't want or need anyone's pity. Who is Stephen to tell L how he should live? If he really were to talk to Near one last time, Stephen wouldn't waste his breath on advice that would never be followed. He would thank him, maybe—offer Near the same gratitude that he offered them.

Maybe he would say, "It was an honor to have worked with you, too, sir." But Near knows that already. He knows how much of a privilege he has bestowed on his agents by showing his face and working so closely with them—something he will, in all likelihood, never do again. Near has returned to the shadows for good. Perhaps he belongs there, and Stephen is foolish to think otherwise. Even so, he can't help looking up one last time at the the tinted window high above the street that screens Near's sanctuary from view.

After gazing thoughtfully for almost a full minute, Stephen forces himself to turn away, pulls his wool coat tighter around his shoulders, and sets off for the train station. In another sixteen hours, he'll be home, and for once in his life, he isn't sure what he's going to do when he gets there. The new world that Stephen has learned to live in for the past six years, the case to which he has dedicated almost a year of his life—it's all over, it's gone. There is no going back. The world is new again, and Near has given everyone in it another chance.

Maybe he doesn't know exactly what to do now, but somehow, it's comforting to know that Near faces no such uncertainty. Stephen's strength is his adaptability, his fluidity, but Near is unchanging and solid, and that is what makes him strong. Stephen smiles grimly as he blends easily into the crowd on the main street, trudging through last night's snow, because he finally understands that he doesn't need to worry any more.

They both have their own work to do.


End file.
